Oil and Water
by Italian Empress 1985
Summary: The Blight was the only thing that kept them from killing each other, and oddly enough the one thing that could turn such different people into friends . . . eventually. Fate and Forbearance universe.
1. First Meeting

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_So, this was a short bit of just how well our two royals didn't get along, and I thought it'd be fun to show how they actually managed to become friends. Though at the end of these two little snippets, I'm sure anyone would still be left wondering how in Thedas that happened._

_More snippets to come, but these were the first two to hit me. Now these are Fate and Forbearance related, and it goes without saying that they start at Ostagar and work their way forward, but you don't need to have read the main story to find the irony in that these two incompatible people wound up married to each other. Oh the horror! ;p_

_So there was a time in the main story where Gwyneth complained about waking up in the Kocari Wilds with Alistair cuddled up to her side in his sleep, afraid of Morrigan turning her magic on him. So I thought I'd have a bit of fun with that, and of course the first meeting where Alistair realizes that Gwyneth is ABSURDLEY overdressed. _

_And for those that haven't read the main story, I should mention that THIS Cousland and Alistair had absolutely no instant attraction or even the inkling of anything resembling affection. There is alot of their unbalanced relationship in the main story, but here I thought it'd be fun to publish the ideas I had for how they developed into buddies-in-the-trenches that wouldn't fit into the larger fic. So . . . voila, and for those unfamiliar with the 'delightful' Gwyneth she puts 'snobbery' into a WHOLE nother category. If you don't like her . . . I've done something right, and if you DO like her . . . maybe I also have done something right. Maybe. Perhaps. Possibly. *rubs hands together maniacally* And so my plan for universal domination through fanfiction begins! MUAHAHAHAHA! ;D_

_Rated 'M' for language and future adult content._

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><p><strong>Oil and Water<strong>

_The Blight was the only thing that kept them from killing each other, and oddly enough the one thing that could turn such different people into friends . . . eventually._

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><p><em>Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right. <em>_Here I am, stuck in the middle with you._

_Yes, I'm stuck in the middle with you, __and I'm wondering what it is I should do._

_- Steeler's Wheel_

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><p><strong>First Meeting<strong>

**H**e blinked into the harsh sun, the warmth of a mid autumn afternoon barely even felt on the wind-worn stones of Ostagar. At first, Alistair thought it was a trick of light, then he thought he hadn't gotten enough sleep last night and was hallucinating. Because, quite obviously, it _couldn't _be Andraste herself walking up the rocky ramp of the leveled dais he was standing on.

The mage he'd been arguing with huffed off, and the Grey Warden blinked again, _but nope_, she was still there, face harsh and irritable, even from that distance he could see that much, but there was no doubt it was her. From the gray stone statues that littered Ferelden of Saint Andraste, and the few colored murals he'd seen during his short time training to be a Templar, it had to be the prophetess.

Same face, same hair, same voice . . . _oh, wait a moment, not quite what he imagined Her Most Holy would sound like_, and now that he looked further, he was certain Andraste had never dressed like _that_.

Capshain leather made into a pair of sewn ladies traveling breeches, tucked into a pair of pricey looking boots, the laces made of ribbon instead of cheaper leather strips or wool braiding. An equally high priced looking leather corset, studded with smooth metal buttons and emblazoned with two crisscrossing white laurel branches, was worn over a ruffled white shirt that covered the upper portion of a woman that had probably never known what it was to be starving. Over that, her long neck was framed by the high embroidered collar of a fine black and dark green ladies riding jacket, that made her look severely over dressed for a working soldier encampment, and if she was a prostitute she'd probably be wearing a lot less than that, so not a 'camp follower' either.

_Nobility_. Alistair thought immediately, a sour distaste already filling his mouth. An imperious tone, full of the kind of self important notes that Alistair had become used to in his youth, erupted from the severe press of her lips.

"I assume then that you are Alistair, the Grey Warden? The description fits, relatively."

Snooty upturn, low crested quality when she said his name, and a disdainful finish. _Yup, definitely nobility_, and once he realized that, it seemed silly to have ever imagined her as Andraste, though the resemblance was . . . eerie. Especially when she was inspecting him, eyes such a light shade of silver as to almost be white.

"Yes, that's me. Who are _you_ suppose to be?"

"_Suppose_ to be?" A snort of widened nostrils, eyes narrowing on his face. "I'm suppose to be still at home, safe and secure and . . ." She trailed off, eyes glistening suspiciously, but she turned her head, a snarl painted on her face when she turned back. "Your commander bade me to come find you, though I've no idea why he could not have collected you on his own. I suspect he wished to see what kind of commands he could issue that I might follow, as if training a dog!"

_Duncan, she was talking about Duncan, and not very nicely either_! Alistair was just about ready to tell her what she could do with her attitude, when she cleared her throat, curtseying properly enough that the shocked Warden was certain it was more for her benefit than his.

"Lady Gwyneth Cousland, daughter to Bryce Cousland, Teyrn of Highever."

"A teyrn's daughter?" Alistair asked, voice choking over his disbelief. _What was Duncan thinking? Recruiting such high nobility, and some snotty little girl at that! How old was she anyway? Sixteen? She certainly acted young and conceited enough!_

Said snotty little girl, raised her head, holding it high and proud. "Yes, that's right."

"Well, if you are going to be a Grey Warden, you should know that titles don't mean anything to the Wardens." He could hold his head high too, if he wanted.

"Hmph! As if I care for the archaic 'rules' of a dwindling and barbaric order!" His flabbergasted silence at her disrespectful proclamation left her room to carry on. "Well? I've found you, so now you can escort me back to your camp."

It was an order that she dared to think she could give, and he would follow like an eager puppy. "Follow me." He huffed angrily, thinking snidely how wonderful it was that Blights brought people together like this.

Then he got back to where the Wardens had made their own camp, and found out the snob had a rather large and snarling mabari. Whose name was, of course, Noble. '_Brilliant_!'

* * *

><p><strong>Like Cuddling a Cactus<strong>

**E**very noise Alistair heard made him think of huge ogres bursting through the trees with packs of slavering blight wolves on their heels, waiting to start in on the rent meat of the ogre's victims. He'd never considered himself a coward, but considering how many Wardens had just died, and how utterly alone he was, the last of the Grey Wardens wasn't so keen on seeing darkspawn anytime soon.

_No, not the last _. . . His eyes strayed over to the curled up form of his reluctant sister at arms and her snoring mabari hound. One arm, the one not damaged by a darkspawn bow, slung over Noble's rising and falling belly.

Duncan dead, the king dead, all his brothers of the Grey dead. It was still all so unreal, but as he sat up in his bedroll, the chill quick to reclaim the parts of his body that had been warmed in that cocoon, he realized that it _was_ real. The Kocari Wilds cradled them in chilled fog and the sound of night stalking beasts, _and speaking of night beasts _. . .

The witch, Morrigan, was sat over a small steaming pot that smelled of herbs, humming low in her throat. _'Creepy!' _She must have felt him watching, craning her neck like a praying mantis, to stare at him through the dark with glowing yellow eyes.

Alistair shivered, and realized it was probably just his over active imagination, her eyes wouldn't actually be _glowing_. Still, he found himself moving his bedroll closer to Gwyneth's. His eyes shuttered closed, listening to the rhythmic breathing of the large mabari that separated him from the newest Warden, and fell asleep dreaming about crowns stained with blood and witches that would turn him into a toad.

The sun rose eventually, as it had a tendency to do, peeking through the trees with cold bright shafts of milky yellow light, casting a myriad of shadows across the two sleeping Wardens. Alistair was the first to wake, yawning and stretching to find a pleasant, soft warmth against his bedroll, and he smiled, cuddling into the comfort of that warmth and pulling it closer.

Then . . . "Get off of me, you pervert!"

A shrill tone of a highly displeased girl, and Alistair found himself sitting upright and blinking to clear his vision. She slapped him soon after, and his face was full of growling mabari. The witch joined the cacophony, demanding to know what happened.

"Oi! Calm down!" Canine spittle made him turn his head, arms folded to keep the spray from his face. "Call off the damn mutt and _calm down_!"

Gwyneth was standing, looking rumpled but no less livid for it, pointing at him and glaring, her shouting matching Morrigan's and competing with Noble's loud growling. "He's not a mutt, and what made you even _think_ to put your hands on _me_? You, you . . . filthy, manner-less, peasant, half wit! I should let Noble rip you apart!"

"Hey, hey now, wait just a minute!" The bedroll wanted to tangle around his ankles, but Alistair finally managed to stand, waving his arms in front of him. "It wasn't on _purpose_, I was sleeping!"

"A likely excuse." Morrigan offered, arms folded eerily similar to Gwyneth's own pose, one black brow arching high. When Alistair glared at her, she only smirked. "All that templar training to control yourself and you are no better for it. More nonsense spouted by the heresy of your precious Chantry, no doubt."

"Do you think me an idiot? I'll bet you were just _waiting_ for the first opportunity to touch me! If my father were still here, you'd have been flayed for such disrespect for your betters!" Even having just woken, Gwyneth was no less temperamental, nostrils flaring at him, though she had at least called Noble back to her side.

"My '_betters_'? You're unbelievable! I said it was an accident, and now that I've gotten to know you a bit more, I'm pretty sure _no one _would _purposely _touch you. It's not so different from snuggling up to a bush full of nettles!" His lip curled, anger building under the surface like embers in a fire reaching for the point where flames would be set alight.

"_What_? How _dare_ you speak to me like that!" She shoved him with all the might she could muster, though with Gwyneth, that wasn't much, but it was enough to make him stumble back.

Noble looked back and forth between them, whining in confusion.

"Oh I _dare_ plenty!" Alistair stood his ground, hands gesturing madly. "You wouldn't even be bloody _alive_ if it wasn't for me! You fight about as well as a nurse maid with a broom stick!"

Morrigan rolled her eyes at the childish bickering, going to her pack to make sure everything was sorted, and left the two Wardens to fight amongst themselves. They had a long day ahead of them if they were going to reach Lothering before sundown, since they could not yet risk the open road.

"Not all of us can be lumbering pit dogs, whose only task in life is to be a human battering ram!" Gwyneth countered, fixing him with a glare of superiority.

"Listen here, you stuck up little bitch! I've had enough of your insults! The least you could do is show me some respect, or didn't you have the education enough to be taught some manners?" He sneered, feeling darkly pleased with himself.

"Manners are reserved for those that have earned them, and _you_ certainly haven't." The wayward noblewoman huffed, grabbing for her bedroll in the jerking movements of a child having a tantrum. "And if you so much as brush up against me again, in a way that I find displeasing, it will be the last thing you _ever_ do . . . chantry boot licker!"

"As if I would, you shrieking harridan!" Angrily, Alistair kicked aside his own bedroll. "I'm going to get some water." He glared over his shoulder as Gwyneth glared back, heading for the stream they'd filled their canteens from the night before. "Don't follow me!"

"Oh don't worry, I _won't_." She hissed, turning her back on him.

Alistair snorted, pushing branches aside in his temper. '_Surely, a friendship for the ages_.' He thought bitterly, hoping he'd be able to survive the trip to Lothering with his sanity intact.


	2. Not 'Too' Awful

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_Sarcasm by osmosis here! :p And the longer he's around her, the worse it'll probably get. That's alright though, I think, Alistair could use some more witty retorts in his life, can't save the ones he has just for Morrigan. ;) And Gwyneth's a pretty pathetic rogue!class, I must say, can't even disarm a lousy claw trap. :p_

_So more early group hijinx and Lothering! Though no Leliana just yet. I want to do separate one shots for Alistair/Leliana and Morrigan/Gwyneth, so these are mostly Alistair/Gwyneth (no romance!) but I will have Gwyneth's reaction to Leliana in the next drabble probably. Little tidbits snuck in here that I think might be reminiscent of the main story, for any of you FnF readers, a 'hey, they're still doing these same things almost a year later!' but still loose enough that non-readers can still enjoy this . . . I hope._

_Just one drabble here, but it's a bit on the long side, compared to the other two._

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><p><strong>Not 'Too' Awful<strong>

**T**hey should have made it to Lothering by nightfall, but Gwyneth hadn't been used to traveling on her feet for so long. The trek from Highever to Ostagar had been filled with too much grief and shock for her to even consciously remember how she'd managed _that, _in comparison. So it was that the sun was dipping down and they were forced to make camp. Alistair complained about it, until Gwyneth had shouted enough to drive him away to go hunting for food, pouring salt in the wound by making him take Noble with him so 'at least one competent hunter' was out there . . . but he'd gone all the same.

The road was littered with abandoned campsites, left by fleeing refugees. Morrigan said that it was likely Chasind leaving their Wilds behind them. Everyone spoke of how brutal the southern barbarians could be, but it seemed not even _they_ were equipped to deal with droves of darkspawn. The horde itself would remain at Ostagar for a few days longer, gorging and collecting their spoils, while regrouping for another move, or so the witch, Flemeth had suggested. Gwyneth didn't know differently and it made sense besides. However, that meant the darkspawn had _plans_, had _tactics_, and that in itself was scary, and it meant they were only two days ahead of them at the most. It didn't leave the displaced noble feeling very secure, and maybe she _should_ have kept going. Yet, while she may have agreed with Alistair that she should've pushed herself a bit harder, she wasn't about to throw her lot in with some peasant slash templar slash Grey Warden, slash _whatever else the fool wanted to toss in there_. The man collected former 'titles' more than her brother had collected those naughty luminary cards from Tevinter.

A tarp had been confiscated from such an abandoned campsite, the material made out of a treated lambskin or something similar, and large enough to protect her from the rain if a storm kicked up. As uncomfortable as the tents were that Duncan had possessed, she missed them now. Morrigan didn't seem to mind, but she had already proven herself resourceful with what little supplies they _did_ have and Gwyneth could admire her for that. She had odd ways, the witch, but she could prove useful despite them.

Currently, Gwyneth found herself reassessing that.

"My foot's still caught, except now I'm frozen as well!" Gwyneth griped, holding herself up off the ground with her elbows bent and one leg held out, the other at a strange angle while a poorly constructed claw trap had her foot. Its shoddy make and her fine boots had been about the only things that kept it from sinking straight through to her flesh. '_Brainless Chasind cows, leaving this behind_!'

Morrigan cocked her head this way and that, blinking owlishly. "I had thought a frost spell would break the lock." She tried to hold back a smirk at the lines of frost that dusted the new Warden's traveling breeches.

"Well clearly it didn't! Get me out of this! I want _out_! I want . . . "

Alistair chose that moment to emerge from the brush, carrying an armful of late season wild apples, Noble standing beside him with a dead hare in his mouth. The former shook his head when he finally realized what was going on, the latter howled, dropped the hare and huffed over to his mistress' side.

"Oh, come now, tis hardly _that_ dire." Morrigan scoffed at the mabari but the beast _actually glared at her_! "Do not think to manipulate _me_, dog, I am far better than you at it. Your wide eyed pouting does you no favors." He whined and she turned her head. "I suppose it is not likely that _you_ have any experience with traps, failed templar."

"I'm not a 'failed templar', I just never took my vows. We've been over that!" Alistair growled.

"Would you two _shut up _and get me out of this!" Gwyneth shrieked as Noble sniffed at the trap, gingerly sticking out one paw and trying to pry it open with his nails. It didn't work and he was soon barking at it, biting on the rusted metal. "Oh, baby, don't. You don't know where this has been. You wouldn't want any of that in your mouth."

"Your mongrel always has some kind of carrion in his teeth, a little rust is hardly a concern." Morrigan scoffed, but at Gwyneth's hot glare, she sighed, kneeling down to try her hand at breaking it open with her magic.

"How did this happen?" Alistair went over to the collection of their knapsacks, pulling his out to put the apples inside.

"Apparently, the shit heel that camped here before us, set traps for any bandits on the road. Ack! That's too hot!" The noblewoman groused, narrowing her eyes on Morrigan as she melted the ice off with warm hands, made more so by the small mage fire dancing in both cupped palms. "I wanted to tie one end of that tarp up, and this tree seemed perfect." She gestured accusingly to a tall fir tree, as if its bristles were laughing at her, instead of just shaking in the wind. "Then I stepped in this bloody trap!"

Morrigan put a curled fist beneath her jaw. "Well, this is not working."

"No! _Really_?" Alistair snickered, bringing a small wrapped knife out of his pack, taking the layered muslin off it. Some idiots would've probably just tossed it in there, but a few accidental cuts had taught Alistair a better way of transporting anything sharp. "Luckily, I think I might be able to get it."

"Oh, huzzah, my _hero_! Quickly, Morrigan, be sure you can revive me, I might faint away into a dead swoon!" Gwyneth rolled her eyes at the mage, both women grinning at each other. Alistair looked less amused. "Fine, do as you will . . . but _don't _stab me!"

"Believe me, it's more and more tempting by the second." He grumbled under his breath, crouching down and holding the corner hinge of the trap with one broad hand, blade pressed into where it had locked in place.

"Who randomly carries knives with them, anyway?" The impertinent cinnamon haired damsel in distress pouted, and it might've been cute if she wasn't so prickly.

"Nothing random about it, I need it for skinning dinner, and I use it to pick my teeth sometimes." Alistair rambled off, concentrating on the task.

Gwyneth was aghast. "To _pick_ your _teeth_? And you intend to use it for that after sticking it in _this_?"

"Why not?" Alistair shrugged carelessly.

She made a strangled noise in her throat. "Your habits are utterly disgusting!"

He paused, turning his head to glare at her. "You know what, sweetheart? Why don't you try to get _yourself_ out of this, since that's worked so well for you so far."

"_Don't _call me _sweetheart_!" Gwyneth sniped, unaware that the two of them had once again forgotten about Noble and Morrigan and everyone else for the sake of bickering with each other. As he got up in an angry huff and actually started walking away, she almost choked over her next words, but managed. "Wait!"

Alistair paused, back turned on her, but waiting as she'd asked.

"I'm . . . sorry. I'd just . . . well I'd really like to get out of this, my leg is starting to cramp." When he finally _did_ turn around, Gwyneth tried her most charmingly helpless expression, set of wide eyes, and fearful pout with slumped shoulders. It always worked . . . _well, _almost_ always_. Just one more word . . . "_Please_?" and there it was.

"Fine, fine, but a little gratitude would be nice, you know?" He tried not to look at her, it made the sour, thin line of his mouth hard to maintain. It was pretty bad that Alistair would crumple that easily, but he didn't have to make it obvious as well.

Morrigan had given up altogether, shooing Noble away from her side as he tried to give her the dead hare, in lieu of his mistress' predicament. "I do not want it, flea bag! No, whining at me is not going to change my mind!" Then . . . "Oh, _alright_! Set it by the campfire and _maybe_ we will cook it for dinner."

"Be nice to him, you should be honored that he thought to present you with his prize. Mabari take a lot of pride in their hunting skills!" Gwyneth shouted across the camp, perturbed when Morrigan waved her off, but she was otherwise occupied by watching Alistair work, anxious to be free. "Careful, careful!"

"I _am_ being careful, but you telling me to, is more likely going to distract me . . . so stop it." He tilted the blade at a higher angle, trying to listen for the tell tale click that would signal he'd found the catch. If it hadn't been for the hunts he'd gone on in his youth, he might not have known such things, and Alistair felt some pride in that, but didn't want to say so, since Gwyneth would probably take it away by not caring. It certainly crossed his mind to leave her like that . . . but the pout had done him in, wide eyes looking up at him, all silver and glinting with suspicious moisture, and there he was. "Just a bit more, I think I've . . ." There was the click, the trap springing open with a metallic grating. "Got it!"

Gwyneth was quick to pull her foot away, the tightness of her face easing away from anxiety and into relief. "Oh, thank the Maker. . . and you." She added as an afterthought, at Alistair's disgruntled frown. "Tsk! Would you look at that!" She ran her fingers over the gouges in the leather of her boot. "These were my best traveling boots, too, and now they're ruined!

"I'm sure we can find a cheap pair in Lothering, but I've some leather strips that I use to bind my wrists, if you want one to wrap around yours until we get there." Alistair offered, certain she wouldn't take him up on it, and she didn't.

"You _must_ be joking. _Me_, a _Cousland_, wearing _peasant boots _purchased on the fly as we make our flight north with the rest of the unwashed refugees?" Gwyneth sniffed in distaste, holding her head high in the air as she stood with as much grace as she could muster, a dirty sidelong glance given to the trap that had cost the spoiled girl her favorite boots. "I'd rather contract the mange."

"Suit yourself then, as the cold water and mud seeps in and your toes freeze and have to be cut off later. I'll probably have to use _this_ knife, too." He had his back turned on her, so she couldn't see the cheeky grin he was wearing, ready for her reaction and Gwyneth didn't disappoint.

"Ah . . . p-pardon? Cut _off_?" She paled considerably, and since Gwyneth was already pale, it made her almost as white as fresh linens, though some yellow was settling in beneath her eyes.

"Oh _yes_, maybe you'll get lucky and ole witchy face over there might have some herbs or something to take the pain away, you know once the gangrene sets in. Nothing for the smell of the pus though, all oozing and . . ." Alistair continued, having to bite his cheek after every four words, to keep from laughing. Thankfully Morrigan was occupied getting her own 'nest' sorted out for the evening, otherwise she might turn him into something worse than a toad for talking about her, again.

"Stop, stop!" Gwyneth gagged, a hand over her mouth, and when she finally caught a look at his reddening face, she glared. "You're a liar!"

"No, I'm really not, just exaggerating mostly, but you should see yourself, you look like you're going to toss your stomach on the ground." He could barely breathe as he doubled over, hands on his knees, Gwyneth's nostrils flaring in time with his guffaws of laughter. "Oh, come on! Really though, you _will_ get awfully uncomfortable if we don't get new boots for you. Peasant boots are better than no boots at all . . . aren't they?"

An irritated breath blew a wayward curl from her face as Gwyneth pouted, not so cutely that time, arms folded over her chest. "I . . . suppose." The words were almost painful to say, and she stopped glaring to look for Alistair's pack on the ground. "Didn't you say you had some leather strips I could use?"

The laughter ceased, as he eyed her. "Maybe I did and maybe I didn't, but where's that gratitude for getting you out of the trap?"

"I _said _thank you." She stood her ground.

"Yeah, barely." He _also_ stood his ground.

Gwyneth snorted at that, rolling her eyes, but stepped closer as Alistair watched her warily.

"What are you doing?" His folded arms came loose and he almost flinched, anticipating something terrible.

Gwyneth grabbed his jaw in one long fingered hand, her palm cupped over his chin to turn his face sideways and he was a bit too shocked to pull away, even more so when she planted a brief, feather light kiss on his cheek. A low, breathy 'thank you' whispered against his ear. When she pulled away, she looked very smug, lips turned in the corner in the ghost of a smirk that she didn't quite manage. "Better?"

"I . . . ahh, yes. So, you wanted those leather strips?" He offered with a short nervous laugh, resisting the urge to watch her over his shoulder as they both walked away. Later she'd be after him to get rid of that trap, probably, against such 'menial labor' herself. Right then, however, for a brief moment, Alistair caught himself thinking Gwyneth _might_ just have moments where she wasn't _too_ awful.


End file.
